


Crawl or Die

by Monkess



Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: Depression, Dungeon, Gen, Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:20:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkess/pseuds/Monkess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Elder Scrolls -inspired dungeon crawl as a metaphor for depression and the human condition under hostile circumstances.</p><p>Obviously no Mark / Recall in use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crawl or Die

It was the strangest feeling, of all things, that I were there. Stumbling through the black void, the eternal-seeming darkness, utterly without hope, not believing there was a tomorrow worth waking into even if I were to get outside of the miserable cave. When the pale, white and warmthless willowisp lights appeared, I'd first thought to ignore them entirely. I had no faith or interest in what would happen to me, I wanted to hide in that black place and wait for the cloaked figure of death to come and collect me, but my body knew better than my mind did. Involuntarily, I stood up from where I'd been huddled, and left darkness and death, to follow the light that promised no good, no evil.

The ghost lights were just a thing that were, in these caverns, and they were as disinterested in me as I was in them. My walking behind them as their afterthought was purely a matter of coincidence that had nothing to do with plans, fate, or destiny. I had been in the dark. They illuminated the eternally sunless pits under the mountains, and I followed, because my body still wanted to stay alive. It wanted to breathe, it wanted to drink water, and eat roots and fruit and berries, and even if my mind was still as dark as the cave I was in, there was still that flicker of light called life that kept me in motion, even as I felt like I was a sickly puppet caught in someone else's strings, playing to the tune of evil people who'd made themselves gods with malicious lies and wickedness that would destroy everything. Myself, themselves, and even eventually this cave, this willowisp, and every drop of goodness and kindness in the world.

That didn't even interest me since in my apathy I'd lost all heart. Goodness was something worthless and childish, something the demons had taught us we should possess, to make us better slaves. I also recognized that besides my body, another thing that kept me moving, alive, still going, was the unquenchable thirst for something I couldn't describe. It was a thing between aching reality and illusive beauty, something that there were hints of in the smell of freshly baked bread, or in the graceful movement of a seagull taking to flight. It was something I knew I needed, had always needed, had always looked for, but had never quite caught. Of course it couldn't be touched, for it was always just that one more step away, hidden behind a veil of mist and rain on one of those crisp autumn nights, it lived in the air itself when it was quiet in the winter, that certain something.

Unthinkingly, my body, which felt like my corpse, followed the willowisp through the dark tunnels, past the stalagmites and stalactites, on footpaths near deadly deep ravines, and all was quiet except for my footsteps and breathing. When I began to listen to the quiet, really listen to it, a numb sort of peace started to set in my soul, and the wistful longing for the kind of beauty and happiness in life that had always felt so unattainable and elusive, it began to feel soft and comfortable, like nostalgia, instead of stinging and bitter like regret.

The wisp took me to a great hall of the undercaverns which was full of glowing mushrooms, so much so that the wisp's ghost-light illumination was unnecessary for me. The sight of the tall cave-hall, with the long tendrils of glow-mushroom strings, echoing their pale blue light was like seeing an early sunrise in June for the first time in my life. Happenstance beauty that had been there long before I had, and would be there most likely after I was gone.

Then I saw it. A corridor, unmistakably chiselled and reinforced by hands of crafters and builders, led out of this cavern of pure natural marvel. A tremor passed through me as I approached it and entered, but there was no hesitation, no questioning, no screaming voices in my head stopped me from continuing into what must have been nothing short of mystery and wonder. What was this place, I asked? And told myself, I was sure to soon find out.

The walls themselves seemed to glow with faint light as I made my way forward. It was not obvious light, but rather, the presence of illumination that kept off the darkness. It was a soft, blue lightness. Any anxiety and apprehension I had over my discovery seemed to melt away the longer I got. Despite being lost and trapped underground, I didn't feel the choking hand of misery around my neck any longer. Instead it I recalled being a child, ten years old, walking in a birchwood copse with reed and grass, on an early summer's night so late it was early. I could almost smell the grass, moist with dew, and hear the first calls of the finches, and the last of the nightingales.

The corridor opened up to a room, a small and simple room which was no hall, no cavern. The room had smooth stone tiling on its walls and floor, some with simple abstract decoration, and in the middle of the room was a white stone dais, the top of which was covered under a purple velvet cloth.

I removed the cloth carefully. Underneath there was a sword. It was large, nor was it very ornate. It was a simple weapon, graceful in its shape.

There had always been that nagging feeling in my head, that I had never mattered, because I had never been able to do anything, that I had no worth, I had no capability. The voices rose up in my head in a roar, telling me not to touch the blade – that even if I did take it, and bring it up to the world with me, someone would take it from me, that I had never been good enough to be a hero. And besides, any hero in these lands was always, always set up for failure. You cannot take this burden, you cannot step up, you cannot rise above the darkness. You will fail, you will fail!

But the sword was the closest thing I had ever seen to that unnamed thing I had always looked for, all my life, that elusive beauty that contained the hidden and secret true names of the stars, truth about our lives and the stone-hard honesty of what was more real than things that mere eyes could see. For the first time since I couldn't remember when, the voices in my head didn't matter, because my hand went to that sword, my fingers grasped its hilt and pulled the blade out of the scabbard, and out it came.

There was no flash of light, the room didn't start to collapse, which was a thing I'd partially expected too. What happened was that I felt I started to change. My broken spine tingled as it straightened up. A flush of invigoration flowed through my twisted and bent knee. Life itself seemed to course through me, unstoppable and eternal. I could see myself as if from a bystander's point of view, tall and full of light, becoming a part of that wondrous secret that I hadn't believed I would ever find, but here, in the pitch black dark, so unexpectedly and suddenly, I at last did.

I wondered if I was dreaming, or hallucinating. The sword felt heavy in my hand. Heavy not with weight, but with its purpose and responsibility. To wield a sword, to be a wielder of such a thing, that in itself was a burden, I thought. Was I ready?

Would I ever be ready?

And did I have time to wait?


End file.
